


Brendolina; or, the History of a Young Gentleman's Entrance into the World

by wildestranger



Series: Brendolina [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M, regency au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:21:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildestranger/pseuds/wildestranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A scandalous lord is driven into exile, an innocent young man arrives to the city in search of a wealthy bride, and a notorious rake attempts to woo a virtuous beauty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

The weather outside was grey and gloomy. Even in the best of years, English springtime was not known for its sunshine, warmth, or other springlike qualities, but hail in April was an unusual low. A suitable accompaniment for these melancholic times, said Lord Way. A bloody good reason to get the hell out of England, suggested his brother, Lord Michael.

Gerard, Lord Way, the most famous poet of his generation, was being driven to exile by his ungrateful country. The scandal had hit two months earlier and grew more insurmountable every day: rumours of sodomy and incest, former mistresses coming forth with complaints of unnatural congress, and servants talking to papers about unlawful embraces between Lord Way and his brother. His poems, which had been praised for their exquisite sensitivity and their moving portrayal of masculine friendship, were now condemned as signs of perverted degeneracy. The young men, who had flocked to his poetry readings wearing black velvet and sporting dark kohl around their eyes (the Orientalist fashion that Lord Way had helped to create), were now most keen to avoid any marks of effeminacy. They were burning his books on Albemarle Street. At least the bad weather prevented that.

Augustus, Lord Way's hamster, was staring mournfully at the window, and the foul weather outside. Or so it seemed to Gerard. It was sometimes hard to tell with Augustus.

His reveries were interrupted by a knock on the half-open door and the entrance of his steward, Brian Schechter.

"All is ready, my lord. As soon as the weather clears, we may go. Unless you would prefer to wait until tomorrow."

Gerard turned to look out the window. The hail continued, angry little pellets smashing against the glass. He imagined they were his countrymen, come to take revenge on him for his attack on English morals.

"No. I want to get out of this dismal place. Even a country inn is better than this."

Schechter coughed delicately. "Excuse me, my lord, but a country inn would not be a good idea in the current climate. You might get recognised and, well. I'm afraid you are all too recognisable at the moment."

As Gerard opened his mouth to speak, Schechter continued. "And no, a disguise wouldn't help. Your proclivities are too well-known, my lord."

Gerard pursed his mouth. It was possible that attending a demimonde ball dressed as a courtesan had been a bad move, in retrospect. Still, it had also been a courageous artistic gesture. Mikey had said so. And that little Ross boy had asked him how he'd got the dress, and clearly taken notes.

"What would you suggest, then? Drive on through the night?"

The smile on Schechter's face was wan, but it was there, a welcome sight after weeks of dark circles around his eyes and ever-deepening frowns on his forehead. Not that Gerard looked much better.

"Yes, my lord. We have food and drink enough for the journey, and there are fresh horses to be had twice before Falmouth. If we leave by six, we can reach the ship by noon tomorrow. And catch the tide."

And be out of England by sundown tomorrow. Gerard felt a grin breaking on his face. Away and into exile, but also to freedom.

"Let us go then. And ride like the wind."

This put a pinched look on Schechter's face. Sometimes Gerard felt that his steward didn't appreciate his poetic genius.

"Indeed, my lord. Shall I carry Augustus?"

Both men turned to look at the hamster, who stared serenely back.

"No, I'll take him in. He can ride with me in the carriage."

Schechter made another face at that, but didn't comment. Gerard picked up the hamster cage and poked a finger through the bars to stroke Augustus, who twitched only a little. Augustus was long used to Gerard's affectionate nature.

With a smile and a haughty step, Gerard Way walked out of his room, out of his house, and into adventure.

: :

Brendon Urie had never been to London before. He had never been out of Yorkshire, which fact seemed more depressing by the minute. In Yorkshire, no one had purple carriages with dragons painted on the sides. Clearly something had been missing from his life until now.

Brendon sighed, and sneaked another look outside at the carriage. A dark-haired man, wearing what looked like a velvet cape and carrying a tiny golden cage, had just stepped out of the townhouse across the street and was gesturing wildly towards the carriage. Another man, in a brown coat and without a cape, was nodding along, with some resignation evident in his posture. Their conversation grew more and more animated, until two other men appeared and embraced the man in the cape. The brown-coated man flinched visibly, and looked around on the otherwise-deserted street before ushering them all into the carriage.

"Enjoying the show?"

Sir Peter was smiling, but there was something in the curve of his mouth that wasn't terribly friendly. Perhaps all those teeth. Still, Brendon smiled back. Smiling was always a good response, he had found.

"I was only admiring the carriage. I have never seen such colours on a vehicle before."

Sir Peter laughed, a warm sound that made Brendon feel less like an unwelcome guest. Not that Sir Peter had been anything but courteous, but Brendon was aware that his father had been forced to remind Sir Peter of numerous family obligations before the invitation to London had arrived.

"I'm sure you haven't, Mr. Urie. But Lord Way is known for his eccentricities."

Brendon's eyes grew wide, all thoughts of familial responsibilities and his father's angry face forgotten.

"Lord Way? The poet?"

Sir Peter's smile turned cold.

"Quite so. You have arrived on a precipitous day, my young friend. Today the most notorious man in London leaves this city in disgrace."

The tone of Sir Peter's voice became mocking, and Brendon wasn't sure whether himself, Lord Way, or the city of London was the target. Sir Peter seemed rather annoyed with them all.

"I have heard of Lord Way. My parents, they…"

"No doubt they told you many things. Fame attracts scandal, after all, and there's nothing the mob likes better than tearing apart what they idolised the day before. I don't suppose you've actually read any of his poetry? There are copies in my library, you know. I even have a signed manuscript of_ The Unicorn Heart_, although Ross is probably hiding it in his room. Communing with its spirit and staining his pillow, no doubt."

Brendon blinked. Sir Peter frowned.

"Stained from tears, I mean. He's a very emotional boy, Ross. Cries at the drop of a hat."

Brendon blinked again, then gave a hesitant smile. Sir Peter sighed.

"Oh hell. What am I going to do with you?"

: :

Dinner at the Wentz house was not a formal affair. Sir Peter had said so, but Brendon nevertheless thought it best to wear his finest brown jacket and his new breeches. This turned out to be a wise decision, as he was by far the least well-dressed gentleman at the table.

Sir Peter had changed into a white shirt with resplendent ruffles, a sharply cut black coat, and the tightest breeches Brendon had ever seen. They looked like they would be impossible to sit down in, but Sir Peter showed no discomfort as he sprawled carelessly on his seat at the head of the table. Brendon suspected he might have had a glass of wine or two since tea. There was a suspicious stain on his ruffles.

On Sir Peter's right side, across from Brendon, was a tall young man wearing the most violent shade of purple Brendon had ever seen (not unlike the carriage earlier on, in fact). The white of his shirt was barely visible through the intricately knotted lilac scarf, and there were at least three shiny brooches on his coat-lapels. Brendon could make out one unicorn, and possibly two dragons.

The gentleman had been introduced as "my ward Mr Ross, a man with poetic ambitions and an exquisite sensibility for fashion. You may notice a similarity between the carriage you so admired earlier and Mr Ross's current waistcoat? Mr Ross, you see, is an _enthusiast_." Brendon had nodded and smiled, and Mr Ross had turned his bored glare from Brendon to Sir Peter, gaining some undisguised irritation on the way. Sir Peter had given another one of those toothy grins, and sipped his wine.

Next to Mr Ross was another young man, in a more sedate dark blue coat and a plain white shirt, his neck cloth simply fastened with sharp lines and a perfectly symmetrical formation. Brendon became uncomfortably aware of his own repeatedly washed and over-starched neck-handkerchief.

He attempted a smile, nevertheless, as Sir Peter was explaining about Brendon's family and their desire to see their youngest son make useful London acquaintances, preferably among the fairer sex with indulgent fathers. However, as the young man ("Mr Smith, formerly of the King's Dragoon Guards, and a particular friend of Mr Ross") did not smile in return, but rather gave Brendon a cool look whilst raising his eyebrow (at this point, Sir Peter was saying something about huge tracts of land), Brendon gave up on trying to look friendly and began to stare at his soup instead. It had peas in it, and Brendon amused himself by inventing adventures for his new friend Mr Pease. Mr Pease did not have to get married, and instead spent his time frolicking with his friends among the shiny green leaves.

Two more plates appeared and were intensely scrutinised (salmon and venison, respectively) as the conversation shifted between Count Saporta's new race horse, the current fashion in collars ("Too stifling", said Sir Peter. "Too unoriginal and lacking in colour", said Mr Ross), and the latest poem by Mr Southey. Brendon sat quietly, half dozing on his seat until he heard his name spoken. Sir Peter was talking, not at Brendon, (which he had not done since the initial introductions) but about him.

"…if you wouldn't mind seeing that he is clothed and combed and brushed? I'm afraid I'm going to be busy this week, and I know how much you enjoy shopping for clothes. I'm sure Mr Urie would be most interested to hear your theory on scarves and how they complement gentlemanly attire."

Sir Peter was grinning again, but the teeth were not so unfriendly now and there was a teasing tone to his voice. Mr Smith even rolled his eyes.

Mr Ross, on the other hand, did not look pleased. Nor did he look at Brendon.

"I'll have you know I have better things to do than to escort schoolboys around London. He's your responsibility, not mine. And…"

"I'm not a schoolboy."

Apparently Brendon had opened his mouth and spoken, _interrupted _another gentleman. Apparently being ignored and laughed at had that effect on him. Or perhaps it was the wine. There had been some wine, Brendon recalled. With every course.

And now he had an incredulous audience, from Sir Peter's open mouth to Mr Smith's raised eyebrows. And Mr Ross's blank look, as if he had assumed that Brendon was in fact incapable of speech.

Brendon cleared his throat.

"I'm not a schoolboy, Mr Ross, I am twenty years of age. And please do not trouble yourself on my account, there is no need to take me shopping. I have brought clothes with me; we do have tailors in Yorkshire, you know."

The look on Mr Ross's face suggested that he was unconvinced by this. Sir Peter laughed, but there was no sneer in it.

"I'm sure you do, but what is acceptable in Yorkshire might not be in London. It is essential that we get you reclothed and booted and cravated, Mr Urie. As, ahem, comfortable as I'm sure your current apparel is, it will not impress the ladies. And impressing the ladies, or at least not impressing them unfavourably, is the most important thing for a young gentleman. Especially one in search of a wife."

Brendon knew that he had to get married, but impressing the ladies seemed a lot more difficult than he had imagined. The girls in Yorkshire hadn't cared what he wore, as long as he didn't step on their toes during the waltz (Brendon was most graceful dancer) and kept up a conversation that didn't involve farming. As Brendon knew very little about farming (despite twenty years of living on a farm - Brendon had a special talent for ignoring all lessons other than music), this had not been hard.

But Sir Peter was still talking to Mr Ross.

"Besides, think of the challenge! Can you change this rustic youth into a fluttering mass of floral patterns and colourful scarves? In, let's say, two weeks?"

There was a speculative gleam in Mr Ross's eyes as he turned to peer at Brendon. Mr Smith, on the other hand, looked like he was trying not to laugh. Brendon frowned. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of that many scarves. The ladies in London must be very peculiar.

"Two weeks, you say?"

Mr Ross's voice was strangely inflected, but there was definitely a certain amount of gleeful curiosity in it. Brendon had a sudden image of himself draped in flowery sheets. Purple flowery sheets.

"Can you have him ready for the Beckett ball?"

"For how much?"

"Two hundred guineas."

"Done."

Both Mr Ross and Sir Peter smirked, then looked at Brendon. Brendon gulped. Mr Ross's tone, when he finally spoke, was bordering on enthusiastic, and there was a strange glint in his eye.

"Tell me, Mr Urie, how do you feel about mauve?"

: :

There were only two candles lighting the room. Pete was still trying to convince Patrick that using more was acceptable, was necessary, even, to spare Patrick's poor eyes, and that Pete could well afford the expense. He had arranged more to be delivered earlier in the day, so that Patrick would not have to ask (which he would not). But Patrick was a cautious man, as careful with money and things as with his words. Spoken words, at least, for on the written page Patrick was unsparing of anything and anyone. Still, this meant that there were only two candles illuminating the room where Patrick worked, throwing wild shadows on the walls, making Patrick's pale skin look even paler, and somehow mysterious in the light.

It also meant that Pete was perfectly justified in leaning close to read over Patrick's shoulder. Even if Patrick didn't like it, even if Patrick had told him repeatedly that he didn't like it and thought it inappropriate between a gentleman of Sir Peter's standing and a gentleman such as himself. He had been kind enough not to mention the impropriety of any intimate touching between men in the current climate (not for the first time, Pete cursed Lord Way and his refusal to hide his vices), which Pete was grateful for, and also took as a reason to do more leaning.

Patrick smelled of ink and over washed linen, and Pete wondered, once again, how such incongruous smells had become the strongest of all aphrodisiacs for him. He allowed himself a slight nuzzle against Patrick's cheek, then drew back to appreciate the rather formidable scowl that would soon grace Patrick's face.

He was not disappointed; after a little shudder, Patrick turned around on his seat and scowled. He cheeks were growing red despite the coldness of the room and his eyes were narrowing, pinning Pete to his seat.

And Pete couldn't help smiling at that, an overwhelming, delighted smile, probably showing too many teeth and making him look deranged. There were advantages to being thought mad, though, it meant that he could get away with things like finding new ways to make Patrick blush.

Sadly, Patrick chose not to comment on this new impropriety on Pete's part, but instead handed over the manuscript he had been reading.

"It's about Catholic Emancipation. A reminder of Pitt's promise to…"

"To remove the restrictions on Catholics to hold office, yes, I know. You've told me before."

Pete couldn't help smiling again, because a serious and intent Patrick was a lovely sight.

"Yes. Will you print it, then?"

It was clear that Patrick did not like to ask for things, his native dignity scorning the idea of incurring obligations. It was also clear, in Patrick's steady, modulated voice, that he had learned to do so without compromising his dignity. But even that was too much for Pete. Patrick shouldn't have to bow before anyone, certainly not him.

"Of course I will. Anything you want, my dear Stump."

This wasn't perhaps the best way to convey his sentiments to Patrick. Pete couldn't feel too bad about it, though, since it caused Patrick's cheeks to grow even more red and his mouth to form a most expressive line of disapproval. Pete spent a lot of time thinking about Patrick's mouth and the shapes it could form. Besides, his remark was utterly in earnest.

Then Patrick bit his lip, and Pete lost what little concentration he had.

"It was a serious question, Sir Peter. I wish you would not toy with me in this manner."

An unfortunate choice of words, there, as Pete's mind was filled with scenarios of toying with Patrick. Sometimes Pete suspected Patrick of taunting him deliberately. And sometimes he wondered if Patrick read the same sort of torrid romances as he did and picked up the vocabulary of flirtation from there. Probably not, not a good little Dissenter like Patrick. Patrick looked like he might have written a pamphlet or two against gothic novels.

Still, Patrick seemed to have had the same kind of reflections Pete did (without, perhaps, the digression on gothic romance), as he paused in mid shuffle (Patrick tended to shift and shuffle when frustrated, annoyed, or in conversation with Pete) and cringed at his own words. And as much as Pete loved to see Patrick blush, this was wrong. Patrick should never feel embarrassed, not because of Pete.

"I'm not toying with you, Mr Stump. As I said, I am prepared to print everything you give me, be the subject matter what it may. I trust your judgement."

Patrick's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, and normally Pete would be delighted to watch that, but Patrick was also looking at him, eyes thoughtful and intent. Pete swallowed and stared helplessly back.

When Patrick finally spoke, his voice was mild.

"It would be imprudent of you not to read the text before you print. This is a dangerous business, after all. You should know what you are willing to go to jail for."

Pete nodded and took a long breath.

"I would also be happy to read whatever you give me, Mr Stump."

After a few moments of intent scrutiny, Patrick sighed, and nodded towards the papers in Pete's hand.

"I shall leave you to read, then."

That should have been it, another half an hour spent in Patrick's company, but Pete was feeling reckless, like he had revealed too much and not received a response, like there was more that needed to be said.

"Have you heard from Hurley?"

Patrick's steps came to a halt before the door. There was a moment of quiet before he spoke.

"I visited him yesterday."

Pete nodded, even though Patrick couldn't see him.

"How is he?"

"He seemed in good spirits. The food and medicine that you sent have helped with his cough, despite the Newgate dampness."

"I'm glad to hear it. If there's anything else you think he needs…"

Patrick turned around, his chin lifted, his eyes narrowed.

"I don't know why you do this. Mr Hurley is no friend of yours, and two months ago you had never heard of _The Gentleman's Friend._ Why should you care if another publication is banned, or another publisher jailed? Our concerns do not effect your life, Sir Peter, and you are no radical reformer. You have no need to trouble yourself with our pamphlets."

"Perhaps you have inspired me. Perhaps meeting you, Mr Stump, has made me a new man."

Patrick grimaced. It wasn't uncommon for him to do this when Pete spoke of his enthusiasm for Patrick, but Pete was hoping to change that.

"Perhaps I've come to feel that even a frivolous aristocrat should do something with his life, and use his privilege to change the world. Or perhaps I am a reckless fool, dabbling with dangerous causes just for my own amusement, and destined for ruin like poor Way."

A sudden stillness took over Patrick's body. "You are acquainted with Lord Way?"

Not an association one wanted to publicise these days, but this was Patrick. And Pete was not a man who would hide this before anyone.

"Yes, I am. His brother is a particular friend of mine."

The nod Patrick gave was carefully blank. Pete felt his mouth begin to curl towards a sneer.

"You know, there's no truth to those rumours. They are affectionate brothers, it's true, but nothing more."

Patrick nodded again, then looked down. "And the other rumours?"

"I didn't realise you were interested in scandal."

The blush on Patrick's cheeks began to grow. Pete noted with interest that for the first time since he had met Patrick, this didn't make him want to follow it with his tongue.

"I take it you disapprove, then?"

"Such activities are against the law."

"Does that mean we can't expect a little tract from you to change the law?"

"In the present climate that would be inadvisable."

"But what if…"

"No."

Patrick's voice, usually soft and carefully modulated, was tight with anger. His hands were formed into fists at his sides, knuckles slowly turning white, and there was a quiet sort of fury exuding from him. It took Pete a while to realise that he had been interrupted mid-speech by an employee, by Patrick, of all people. Patrick didn't look like he was going to apologise, either.

"I once saw a man pilloried for sodomy. A man from my village, a boy I'd gone to school with. They threw stones at him until his head was a mass of blood, until one of his eyes was torn and fell on his cheek. It took him three hours to die."

Once again, Pete found himself pinned by Patrick's unwavering gaze.

"So no, Sir Peter, I'm not going to write a pamphlet begging for leniency for sodomites. To speak of it in terms other than rabid condemnation is to court scandal. Men like Beckford, and your friend Way, are allowed exile, but men like me are killed by the mob if not by the law. And it is not worth it."

Patrick's mouth stretched into an unhappy line, but his eyes remained hard. Pete swallowed, wet his lips, and said nothing. For a moment they stared at each other, until Patrick's shoulders began to deflate and he shook his head, once, then walked out without looking at Pete again.

Pete resisted the urge to tear the papers in half. The candles, on the other hand, were no so lucky.

: :

The carriage was half-lit, and Gerard found himself struggling to make out the shapes of the men sitting on the opposite side: Mikey with his spectacles sliding down his nose, his arms crossed over his chest in his usual pose of aloofness, and Schechter, looking out of the window, his face pale and tired in the moonlight. The last change of horses had left them all well-fed and fatigued (Gerard had agreed to Mikey's request that they stop to eat at the inn, despite Schechter's repeatedly vocalised misgivings), but there was a strange contentment in Gerard's soul. Considering the circumstances of their journey, it felt unseemly to be anything but troubled and anxious, on his friends' behalf if not his own. Yet Gerard was happy.

Frank had fallen asleep soon after they'd left the inn. He was leaning against Gerard's shoulder, a warm lump pressed close, his quiet snuffles interrupted by an occasional cough. The cold that had made Frank bedridden for two weeks was not yet gone, but Gerard was hoping that the milder weather of the continent would help. Frank had never liked the English weather - it was something he and Mikey had in common. Gerard, by contrast, was rather fond of misty rain. He felt it had a certain poetic ambiance.

Frank had a tendency to get sick easily, but in this case Gerard had decided (and both Mikey and Schechter had concurred) that the timing had been most fortunate. The scandal had struck two months ago, but in the beginning it had been limited to snide comments in the papers, most of which they had been able to hide from Frank. Whispers behind Gerard's back, lurid speculation amongst the pamphleteers and fiery sermons preached against him (apparently Gerard was involved in a Satanic league of incest) - these were all to be expected, and could be tolerated. But women spitting on his face with impunity in the streets, and the cut direct being offered by acquaintances and former friends, those were a different matter. Frank did not take insults well (his Italian blood made him passionate in defence of his honour, Gerard thought, and felt a fond smile tug at his lips) and any acknowledgement, let alone retaliation, would have made the situation worse. And as Gerard's particular friend and companion, Frank would have felt compelled to retaliate.

He had been feverish at the time when the decision to leave had been made, and Gerard had spent countless anxious hours worrying about whether Frank would be well enough to travel, whether he could be left alone to recover, and whether Gerard should stay with him regardless of the danger to himself. But Frank had insisted, had told them in a voice still rough from coughing, that he would come too. He was in this country only for Gerard's sake, after all, and of course they had to leave, and wouldn't it be nice to see Greece again? They could attend the carnival in Venice on the way, and visit Frank's mother in Ravenna. They would be welcome there, Frank had promised. People were much more understanding in the continent.

Frank snuffled wetly against Gerard's shoulder, and pressed closer. Gerard took one of Frank's hands in his, and couldn't help the smile that bloomed on his face. Even with exile, even with public disgrace, there was still this.

He caught Mikey's eye, and gave up trying to suppress his grin. Mikey rolled his eyes, but he was almost smiling too.

It had been a while since he had seen Mikey smile. Gerard knew there were reasons for this - Mikey's name had been in the scandal sheets too, if not to the extent that Gerard's had. Knowing that he had been the cause of his brother's exile had not been easy for Gerard.

"Stop that."

The annoyance caused by Mikey's apparent ability to read minds made it easier, though.

"I'm sorry."

Gerard knew he had said it often, had repeated it more and more in the past weeks as their names were dragged through the mud. Even if he couldn't regret Frank, it felt wrong that his love should have harmed Mikey in any way. Deprived him of his reputation, his friends and his country.

Mikey rolled his eyes again. One of the things Gerard loved best (and sometimes hated most) about his brother was his refusal to take Gerard's pain seriously. Especially if it involved him.

"I don't mind, you know. It's not like there was much for me there anyway."

Gerard sighed, and turned to stroke Augustus with the hand that wasn't entangled with Frank's. The hamster cage sat on his other side, surrounded by blankets to keep it still and to protect Augustus from the cold night air. Gerard hoped that Augustus would like Europe.

"You had friends there. You could have had a life, done something. You could have got married and had children. Gone into politics."

The grimace on Mikey's face suggested how he felt about those two options.

"I doubt it. Besides, I never got a Grand Tour. Now you can show me all the places you saw, where you visited. Where you met Frank."

"Not very nice for you, though, to be dragged across Europe in disgrace by your notorious brother. By your notorious brother and his catamite."

Mikey's sharp intake of breath implied that he might have gone too far. But his brother's eyes were kind, and serious, when he looked at Gerard.

"You know that Frank would be upset if he heard you use such language. Also, I really didn't need to know that about your relationship. Neither did Schecter, I'm sure."

Schechter continued to stare resolutely at the window, pretending not to hear anything that he might be called upon to testify about. His ears were starting to turn red, though.

"Oh. Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It's just…it's such a horrible word, and they use it about him. I hate it."

Gerard knew he was blushing himself, and would have started flailing any moment if Mikey hadn't put a calming hand on his knee.

"Gee, I know. I _know_. It's not true what they say, and_ you _know that."

"I suppose so."

Letting a final sigh escape his lips, Gerard leaned back, pressing closer to Frank. He could feel a warm breath against his arm, through his sleeve.

"And as for travelling with you two, there's nothing I'd like better. Who else is going to make outrageous noises over all the painted churches of Italy? Or try to climb the statues in order to prove that people used to be shorter, and that English men are just unnaturally tall?"

A light snicker came from Schechter's corner, and Gerard could see the traces of a smirk despite his grave face.

"Well. As long as you're happy."

Mikey smiled at that, a real, honest smile that Gerard hadn't seen in months.

"I am. So stop worrying."

Augustus began to nibble on Gerard's hand.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr Smith considers Mr Urie's talents as a dress-up doll for the eccentric Mr Ross, the notorious Sir Peter enjoys playing with boys, an argument is had over cheese, and our heroine attends his first ball

**The dressing room of Mr Ryan Ross, Wentz House, Piccadilly, London. June 1816.**

 

At least the boy was willing to be experimented on. Spencer Smith had had this thought several times during the past week, as Ryan's remarks changed from "I rather think aubergine is his colour" to "I'm considering sacrificing my green scarf just to shut him up" and "actually, green might do quite well". There had been a few moments when Spencer had been forced to remind his friend that despite Mr Urie's apparent pliancy, he wasn't a doll to be dressed up, and that not everyone could carry off that many flowery scarves. In his private thoughts Spencer could admit that _no one _could, in fact, carry off wearing that many flowery scarves, but there would be no point in sharing this with Ryan. Ryan, when it came to fashion, held some implacable views.

Urie, on the other hand, seemed happy to try on whatever was proposed to him. So far this had included a velvet cape (abandoned after Sir Peter took one look at it and expressed his thoughts on the propagation of Gerardic fashion in terms which made Urie blush), bright yellow breeches with white boots (Spencer had raised his eyebrow and asked, mildly, whether Ryan really thought that it would be necessary to draw attention to this part of Urie's anatomy. And how long he thought the boots would stay clean.), and a mauve coat with embroidered flowers, which had been a surprise favourite with them all (even Spencer had refrained from rolling his eyes). The Beckett ball was only a week away, though, and the tailor had informed them that at least four days would be necessary to complete a suit to Mr Ross's exacting standards.

Which, currently, seemed to be involved in a struggle between how many layers and patterns were needed to create a suitably artistic ensemble and how many layers before Urie drowned underneath all that cloth.

Spencer sighed. Some days, he missed the army. Not even the Right Honourable Justin Hawkins, the aide-de camp to the Duke of Wellington, had worn flowery scarves. There had been no debate over whether such scarves were a suitable complement to embroidered silk. No one had even though of wearing a cape.

Spencer blamed Lord Way for so much.

"I think we might have to go back to the aubergine. At least it would draw attention away from all this brown," Ryan gestured expansively around Urie's face and hair, "and it's always fashionable. Perhaps with the mauve shirt, and the ruffles?"

Urie's eyes grew wide, and he looked at Spencer with some desperation. The ruffles had been somewhat excessive, even for Ryan.

"I don't think Mr Urie has the, ahem, physique to carry off that many ruffles. Not everyone has been blessed with your breadth of shoulders."

Ryan gave him a suspicious frown, clearly wondering if some mockery were intended. Urie, on the other hand, performed an expressive wriggle with his mouth, threatening to burst into laughter several times but ending with only a slightly wobbly pout. Spencer was impressed. He had not realised that Urie was capable of so much mobility, let alone so much self-restraint.

Fortunately, before further tests on anyone's self-restraint were needed, Ryan returned to the topic at hand.

"What would you suggest then? He can't go with a bare throat, that's so 1812." Ryan's mouth formed a disparaging moue.

Spencer had a drawing of Ryan in 1812, just out of university and keen to immerse himself in poetry and loosened neckcloths. Sir Peter had given it to him after his return to London, during a long night of political discussion and endless glasses of burgundy, which had ended with much undignified giggling that had never been mentioned since. One day, Spencer was going to frame the picture and place it in a prominent position in his drawing room. He expected it to be a greatly entertaining conversation-piece.

Until then, however, there were other ways to express his affection for his friend.

"How about _a la Russe_? It's small enough not to engulf him, and he won't have to keep still to maintain it."

One week in the company of Urie had convinced both Spencer and Ryan that keeping still was not a pose he could successfully adopt.

"I suppose." Ryan's lips curved into a mild pout. Clearly he was not happy with the thought of such sedate neckclothing. Urie, by contrast, was looking rather hopeful, his mobile mouth beginning to form another irrepressible smile. Urie was far too prone to smiling, Spencer had noticed. It made Ryan suspicious and cranky - fashion was a serious concern - and more likely to drown Urie in mauve taffeta. And Spencer had little hopes of the young man's ability to contract a successful marriage even without yards and yards of mauve taffeta.

"And the green coat with the flowers and the white breeches. And Hessian boots, of course."

Spencer frowned at that. He had views on Hessian boots, and the distinction between military boots and appropriate shoes to be worn in society. Sadly, Ryan had a regrettable tendency to ignore Spencer's advice on matters of fashion. Especially when it came to shoes. Apparently Spencer was narrow-minded.

Fortunately, Spencer had developed strategies for dealing with Ryan's shoe-related insults.

"Very well. I suppose those will be better for dancing, in any case. We wouldn't want our protégé to fall over in the middle of a waltz because his heels were too high, now would we?"

Ryan's ears began to turn red, and Spencer noted with some satisfaction the suddenly rigid set of his friend's shoulders. The unfortunate incident at the Salpeter ball where Ryan's newly-heeled shoes (and their exotic, Gerardic curves) had caused him to fall down against Miss Price's bosom would never be forgotten, it seemed. Certainly not while Ryan gave Spencer cause to remind him of it.

It was a fond memory, especially in consideration of Ryan's blush which had rivalled his coat in its purpleness, and Miss Price's delight upon discovering Ryan's face in her cleavage. Spencer admitted to having felt a certain uncharitable glee at Ryan's distress and confusion in the face of so splendid a bosom.

Ryan's glare suggested that he was aware of what Spencer was thinking, and that under no circumstances was to the story to be repeated to Urie. Spencer raised his eyebrow and leaned back against the wall. Ryan pursed his lips. Spencer smirked. Ryan made a little huff and rolled his eyes.

"Fine. Mr Urie may wear whatever shoes he prefers, be they fashionable Hessians or countrified buckle-shoes. Just remember that the floors of Almack's are treacherous enough even with the sturdiest of shoes, and that's not taking into account without accounting for the ungainly glomping of country-bred…"

Urie's face, which had been struggling between amusement and curiosity, had begun to suddenly crumble. Spencer hissed a quiet warning but Ryan was already pausing in the middle of his petulant invective and frowning.

Mr Urie's frame seemed to curl upon itself and an awkward silence followed. The appropriate thing would be to look away and give the man a chance to compose himself, but there was something strangely fascinating in Urie's flushed cheeks and the way he bit his lips. Spencer could see that Ryan too was unable to look away, even if his preoccupation seemed to take the form of annoyance at yet another part of the universe made incomprehensible to him. Finally Ryan coughed.

"I merely meant to warn you, Mr Urie, that you must be careful in your selection of footwear when you intend to dance. Some ladies are not as graceful as they should be, and you are in danger of having your toes trodden upon if you do not wear sturdy shoes. No offence intended, I'm sure."

Urie nodded, gulping loudly and blushing, his eyes averted. "I was not offended, Mr Ross, pray do not concern yourself. I am grateful for your advice."

Ryan's look of naked confusion was not unfamiliar, but in this case Spencer could not simply roll his eyes and explain the strange ways of other people to Ryan. Urie's stricken face seemed incongruous in the middle of Ryan's dressing room and their mostly innocent banter about fashion.

As Spencer watched, Urie took a long breath and cleared his throat. His gaze strayed towards the door and his voice was quiet and low.

"Would you mind if we continued the discussion tomorrow? I have some letters to write to my family."

The words, although perfectly courteous, were out of place, and Spencer could see Ryan open his mouth to point out that letter-writing could be done at any time whereas the tailor needed instructions now. Yet Urie was not usually ill-mannered, and his conduct towards the servants at Wentz house had never been anything other than considerate (He made a point of sneaking down into the kitchens to thank the cook personally every time an overtly sugary concoction was offered for dessert. Consequently, the cook thought Urie to be the most charming little gentleman in the world, and Spencer's hips were beginning to swell.). Furthermore, it was uncharacteristic of him (and why, Spencer paused to scowl at himself, did he know what was characteristic of Urie and what was not?) to be distracted and inattentive of other people whilst in company - Spencer had found himself the object of a curiously intense and inquisitive gaze several times, and learned that even his raised eyebrow, a look famed for reducing simpering young ladies into tearful lumps, could not inspire any lessening of interest in the sheepish smile that it produced.

But now all that focus was gone. Urie's expressive eyebrows sat limply on his forehead, and his full mouth had turned into a tight line. Spencer watched as Urie swallowed, a long, painful-looking movement, and then, without further apology, walked to the door and out.

"Well. That was…"

"Yeah."

Ryan was frowning as well, his look of confusion and inward focus mirroring Urie's. Spencer sighed, and reminded himself to find out why Ryan's predictable awkwardness with other people was resulting in an unpredictably concerned response when it came to Urie. Figuring out what was wrong with Urie would have to wait a bit longer and, Spencer told himself sternly, should not be that pressing a matter anyway.

 

**The dining room of Sir Peter Wentz, Wentz House, Piccadilly, London.**

 

Pete was deep into his second glass of claret when he noticed that something odd was happening with the boys. Spencer was frowning at Ryan, who was frowning at Urie, who was frowning at his plate. This in itself was unusual, since Mr Urie's plate was generally a great source of joy for him and he tended to spend the greater part of every meal making delighted faces at it. (Much to Spencer's disgust and thus to Pete's entertainment on several accounts.) This evening, however, Urie was staring at his plate like it had eaten his best friend and vomited it back out again. Which, to be fair, was a legitimate concern, considering that the cook's version of _ coq au vin _was somewhat more blood-coloured than was traditional.

Pete sat up straighter and shook his head a little. Best not get distracted by blood-and-entrail related thoughts at this stage of the night. He'd end up doing dramatic readings of _Walpurga, or The Wronged Witch _again and Spencer was still mocking him for last time. Damn Gerard and his evocative way of writing blood-curling screams.

At the moment, Spencer did not seem eager to mock, but rather, was focused on studying Ryan with a mildly concerned look on his face. This, Pete had learned, was a reason to be mildly concerned himself. The library still bore the stains from Ryan's previous hissy-fit.

He could corner Spencer after the meal and inquire. Or, he could poke at them now and see what happened.

Pete smirked to himself. When in doubt, always poke.

"You boys all set for the ball?"

Intriguingly, Ryan's frown deepened and there was a definite wince on Spencer's face. Pete added an extra dash of innuendo to his voice.

"Dare I ask what preparations have you performed in order to transform Mr Urie into a social butterfly?"

Ryan's mouth, currently pursed into a scowl reminiscent of an elderly butler, turned into a more pubertal pout. Pete grinned and flexed his fingers, debating whether mental poking could be fruitfully supplemented with actual poking - Ryan was ticklish in his sides, and Spencer could usually be counted on to join in. But Ryan wasn't looking at Pete; he was staring at Urie, who was looking woefully unprepared to display his inner butterfly in any way.

"Yes."

Spencer had finally ceased to stare at Ryan, and moved his pointed glare towards Pete. Pete waggled his eyebrows, and detected a light twitch in Spencer's mouth.

"Yes?"

"Yes. We are all set. Also, we are not boys. As I believe we have mentioned several times now."

Pete allowed his grin to display all his teeth.

"Dear cousin, don't you know that I will always see you as a tiny little lump of pink taffeta? Our first encounter was too memorable for anything else to ever take its place in my mind."

"I was eight, you know. And not allowed to choose my own clothes."

And there it was at last - Spencer speaking through clenched teeth with a charming flush on his cheeks. Pete leaned back and took another sip of his wine.

"So you were! And terribly adorable with your round cheeks and fluffy hair. Especially after Ryan had braided it with his new ribbon."

A choked gurgle of laughter came from Urie's direction, followed directly by an enraged hiss from Ryan. Pete turned to address his guest.

"I take it my young friends have not narrated the tale of their first meeting to you?"

Urie's eyes were wide and his mouth was struggling with suppressed and horrified laughter. Pete winked at him.

"It involves an embroidered ribbon, which, you'll find, is the case with most stories involving Mr Ross."

"Sir Peter."

Surprisingly, it wasn't Ryan, but rather Spencer who was trying to convey_ Not now you imbecile _through an intricate dance of his eyebrows. Fortunately, Pete was well versed in reading Spencer's eyebrows.

"But I'm afraid I can't do it justice without the painting with which Sir Nicholas thoughtfully commemorated the event. You'll have to remind me when we visit Wentz Hall - the Smith house is only a few miles away and Lady Olivia is always eager to share stories about her children."

Urie nodded, still displaying all the enthusiasm of a drowned puppy, but with a mild flush to his cheeks. It suited him, Pete decided, and grinned as another malevolent thought flitted across his brain.

"Have you thought about some kohl around his eyes?"

Spencer rolled his eyes and began muttering about Lord Way under his breath, again, but Ryan's eyes lit up and his gaze, still turned to Urie, became speculative. Pete rewarded himself by imagining the rant he would have to hear, again, on the regrettable influence of Lord Way on the taste of the town and consequently, on Mr Ross. Spencer developed such a delightful flush when agitated, and his tendency to swish his riding crop against his boots became even less restrained than usual. Pete was looking forward to Urie's first view of this sight; it was intriguing for a number of reasons.

Ryan, however, was still enthralled by the contemplation of black kohl.

"It would suit him."

"It would."

"And he's dark enough for it not to be obvious."

"Yes."

"Some blush might also work. And perhaps just a trace of colour around his eyes."

"Indeed."

Urie made a squeaking noise.

"Oh don't worry, it's all the fashion. Even with the scandal and all, the ladies still love the Gerardic style."

"The ladies?"

Urie's eyes widened, if possible, even more. Pete raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yes, the ladies. You're supposed to acquire one, if you remember? In order for that to happen, one will have to look at you and be pleased. Delighted would be better but considering what we're working with, pleased will have to do."

Urie blinked twice and then swallowed.

"The ladies like kohl around the eyes?

Ryan nodded gravely. "It is a sign of impeccable taste. Not everyone can pull it off, but with your physique and colouring…"

Spencer's face had gone from concerned to constipated. "Can we not dress him up as a pageboy?"

Now this was a topic that Pete felt qualified to contribute to. Gerard had once called him a connoisseur, although possibly that had not been a compliment.

"But he has the figure for it!"

"Am I the only one who remembers what a bad idea that was the last time?"

"That's just because I was upstaged by Lord Way and his dress! And even he complimented me, he said it was just like the boys in Greece! And Mr Iero came and talked to me about it!"

"Ryan, for the last time, Lord Way was just being polite because you tripped over his hem! And Mr Iero was trying to get you to move before it tore any further!"

Ryan's face had gone from petulant to downright sulky, and Pete feared for a moment that he would have to intervene. Ryan's moods had the tendency to reduce everyone else in the house to either tears or homicidal rage.

But then, Mr Urie spoke.

"You dressed as a pageboy? Could I…could you show me?"

Ryan paused in mid hiss. Urie's face, unabashedly expressive at the best of times, was displaying only utter fascination and reverence.

"And did you say that Lord Way…he wore a dress?"

Urie's eyes had grown impossibly wider, and his mouth was slightly open, shining with wetness and excitement in the candlelight. Pete blinked, then shook his head to clear out his thoughts. He turned to Spencer, who raised an eyebrow at him. Pete smiled back, putting in extra teeth. He made sure his voice was suitably lascivious.

"He did indeed, my young friend. Lord Way is a noted eccentric and his taste in dress - in this case, quite literally - has always been, ahem, unique. And generally purple."

"_Lilac_," murmured Ryan under his breath.

"Sadly, Lord Way does not reside among us anymore, but I'm sure Mr Ross would be happy to show you his etchings of Gerardic costumes. He has many, including, I believe, the infamous velvet dress."

As if on cue, Spencer's eye twitched. Pete smiled into his wine. Protégés were so much fun.

 

**The Cat and The Squirrel Inn, Belgium.**

 

"_…and my way home is through you._"

Gerard added a final squiggle with a flourish, placed his pen neatly next to his inkpot, and yawned. It was not as exciting an event, perhaps, as one might have hoped from the end of a major poetical endeavour, but Gerard had slept little in the past few days, kept awake by the demands of his companion and his poetry alike. Frank, finally recovered from his long bout of illness, had been keen to make up for lost time and consequently not allowed Gerard to leave their room for a week. The poem, in turn, had required Gerard to be constantly attached to his pen, resulting in an unprecedented spurt of creativity as well as inky splotches all over their sheets. Schechter had been forced to enter the room twice, opening the windows despite Gerard's loud complaints and muttering about the considerable availability of baths at their inn, and stealing the sheets from under them so that the washing woman could do her job. It was fortunate, said Schechter, that Gerard's evident writerly enthusiasm could explain the necessity of frequently changed bedclothes. Tolerant though the continent might be, especially in comparison to England, giving further reason for rumours would be most unwise.

Gerard yawned again, and turned to consider the rumpled bed on the other side of the room. Frank was asleep, exhausted by the amorous exertions of a few hours before. He was lying on his side, curled around a lump of sheets that had previously housed Gerard. His face, still pale from his long illness, looked young and innocent in sleep, although Gerard could detect a mischievous curl to his eyebrows. Frank's eyebrows were most expressive, he had noted several times. They liked to waggle at him, and make him blush.

Frank was nothing like his David. Yet somehow in Gerard's mind, the connection had been made, and now David's laughter was as sudden and contagious as Frank's, and his vitality had been implanted on the tall fair form of the young shepherd. Gerard knew that the backbone of his poem, the companionship between David and Jonathan, borne out of blood and steel and shared campfires, would not have occurred to him without Frank. His vision of two young soldiers, building a home in each other's breast, would not have been real without the very real Frank by his side. It was his best poem yet, the culmination of many years of hard work around the topic, and Gerard was not too proud to admit that he had not understood sentimental friendship before Frank. The poem would be for Frank as much as it was because of Frank, and the dedication would be as heartfelt as it was brief.

Schechter would not like that, though. Gerard frowned. It was quite possible that no one would like it, and that no one would read it - a poem by a notorious sodomite, dedicated to his partner in crime. Davidson would try to argue with him about it.

Gerard's musings were interrupted by a scratching noise: Augustus, awaken from a vigorous nap, was busying himself by moving a pile of straw from one end of his cage to the other. He paused to peer curiously at Gerard and moved closer to the door, poking his nose through the bars. Gerard opened the latch and picked him up.

Augustus gave him a serious look.

"I thought you were finished for the day," Gerard said and brought his nose close to bump against Augustus's. Augustus blinked and puffed up his cheeks.

"Are you still hungry? I'm afraid I have eaten all the cheese. It was the last bit of Stilton and I've been told that I shan't see its like again this side of the channel. Would you consider some bread? It was baked this morning and was delicious."

Augustus tilted his head and considered. Gerard crumpled a piece of bread and offered it to Augustus.

"Are you having another fight over cheese?"

Frank's voice was rough with sleep and amusement. Gerard gave Augustus a secret smile, then put on his most affronted look as he turned to face Frank.

"Certainly not. Augustus and I are both gentlemen, and we have come to a gentleman's agreement."

"You mean you have eaten all the cheese."

Augustus chose that moment to pick the bread from Gerard's fingers, stuffed it into his cheeks, and jumped down to return to his cage. Gerard smiled, distracted for a moment, and closed the latch behind him.

"I mean that Augustus, being a generous hamster, has offered me the last of the cheese as a reward for my labours tonight."

Frank waggled his eyebrows and Gerard felt an answering shiver in his belly, coupled with a bubble of laughter.

"What labours would those be? Have you done something particularly energetic tonight?"

Gerard glanced down at the parchment, and let his smile (the one Mikey liked to call demented) spread on his face.

"I finished the poem."

For a moment Frank stood still, blinking, and then a whoop of delight rang through the room and Frank was there, pulling Gerard out of the chair and trying to lift him up, laughing. As Frank was still a little weak from his illness, what happened was more like being tugged upwards, but Gerard did not mind. He hung on just as tight and laughed as well, his mouth pressed against Frank's throat as he tried to remain quiet.

"It's really finished?"

"Hush, we don't want to wake up everybody in the inn. But yes, it's finished, and I am done. The poem is done."

Frank hugged him even tighter. "I'm so proud of you."

"I couldn't have done it without you."

His cheeks were wet and Gerard couldn't tell whether it was his or Frank's, but it did not matter. He rubbed his face against Frank's, and closed his eyes. Frank's lips were soft on his ear.

"I'm glad you had me."

There was no way for him to pull Frank any closer, but Gerard tried.

"Me too."

: :

A frown marred Schechter's forehead, and Gerard could hear the light grinding of teeth as he read. He took another sip of his coffee, and sneaked a look at Mikey. Mikey was building a pyramid out of the tiny biscuits their hostess liked to make. They weren't as delicious as those made by Bryar, but they were better for building. Yesterday, Mikey had done a full Roman fortress.

It was possible that writing a poem in the inn of a tiny Belgian town was not as exciting for the other members of his entourage as it had been for Gerard.

"You can't publish this."

Gerard paused in mid slurp, then put his coffee down. He had expected this, he reminded himself.

"It's a good poem."

His voice, at least, was calm and steady. From the corner of his eye Gerard could see Frank sit up and prepare for an argument. But Schechter spoke first.

"It's a brilliant poem. It is the best poem you have written, but that means nothing when you are a disgraced poet writing about your disgrace. It pains me to tell you this, my lord, but no publisher will touch you now."

Schechter's eyes were kind, but there was steel in his tone, and Gerard knew he was right. He closed his eyes briefly, picked up his coffee to take another sip.

"But you think it's good?"

Something painful flickered over Schechter's face and Gerard had to look down as Schechter leaned closer, took hold of his hand. The impropriety spoke his concern loudly enough.

"It is the greatest poem of our time. In a hundred years they will still speak of it and lament the foolishness of your people who did not appreciate your genius. This poem will outlive the prejudices of this day, I promise you."

"But they will not read it now."

"They will not read it now. No one dare risk their reputation for you, not even for this. Davidson would be a fool to try, despite all his affection for you and his support for your talent."

Gerard nodded, and squeezed Schechter's hand. The first swallow was a little hard, but the second one was better. Maybe some coffee would help.

A cough interrupted his musings on the restorative powers of the divine drink, and then Mikey's voice, as blank as ever.

"I might know somebody."

Gerard blinked. His brother had not looked up from the pyramid, which was at its final stages. "Mikey?"

"They might not be able to pay you much. But you could get it out there. If that's what you want."

"What do you mean?"

Mikey shrugged, his eyes still fixed on the tiny biscuits.

"A friend of mine has a small printing press. He would probably do it if I asked him. They are used to publishing contentious works."

Schechter's eyes narrowed and there was a wealth of suspicion in his voice.

"Such as…?"

Mikey shrugged again, still occupied by his pyramid. Watching it had made Gerard hungry, and he contemplated idly what Mikey would do to him if he stole a biscuit. From somewhere in the middle, perhaps.

"The City of Fornication. And The Greed of Animals."

"You mean Clandestine Press. Who are well on their way to becoming the most hunted pirating press in London, who publish pamphlets that not only criticise the government and advocate the collapse of civil society but also bring the most abandoned of libertines to shame. Andrew Hurley was thrown into Newgate three months ago for obscenity and treason and the printers have been sentenced to death in absentia. This is the press you would recommend for your brother?"

Mikey looked up, his gaze perfectly blank over his spectacles.

"They would not be afraid to publish, at least. And the printing presses are well hidden. I doubt they're in any particular danger."

A disturbing notion had just occurred to Gerard. Mikey did not have that many friends, certainly not ones who were close enough for such secrets. And there were not many with the inherent insanity to practice something like this

"Mikey, who is your friend?"

A private smile twisted Mikey's lips and confirmed Gerard's suspicions even before his brother spoke.

"You remember Sir Peter, I trust?"

 

**The Blue Ballroom, Beckett House, London.**

 

It was Brendon's first ball, and he was not nervous in the slightest. There was nothing to be nervous about. He was a good dancer and the ladies liked that in a man. He would not step on anyone's toe. There was nothing frightening about ladies.

Brendon, standing in the shadow of Mr Ross and almost entirely hidden from view, dared a quick glance at the ballroom. There were many ladies, and many gentlemen, dancing and talking and drinking, all loud and colourful and devastatingly scary. Brendon shuffled on his feet and tried to make himself smaller. Perhaps he would not have to dance at his very first ball. Perhaps he could just watch. From behind Mr Ross. Who, admittedly, was not a very effective protection against the hordes of young ladies - one could not expect Mr Ross to provide a large cover - but on the other hand, it was highly unlikely that after seeing Mr Ross one could see anything else. The effervescence of turquoise scarves that complemented his lilac coat had attracted many an envious glance (mostly from young ladies, Brendon had noted, whose whirling skirts could only aspire to such levels of floatiness). The jaunty angle of his coat tails produced a most flattering effect on Mr Ross's lower limbs, and caused Brendon to worry, once again, about the state of his own limbs, and the way they were displayed by his breeches.

The first sight of Mr Ross had caused Sir Peter to snort and Mr Smith to roll his eyes, but from their lack of further reaction, Brendon assumed that such attire was typical of Mr Ross. His own suit of green coat and white breeches appeared positively modest by comparison, a fact for which Brendon decided he was most grateful. No one would notice him standing next to (or slightly behind) Mr Ross.

Sadly, Sir Peter did not seem to agree. In his few weeks at Wentz House, Brendon had learned that the sight of a particularly toothy smile meant amusement for Sir Peter and embarrassment for everyone else. That smile was currently making its way toward him, and holding the hand of a very blonde young lady.

"Mr Urie, allow me to present Miss Salpeter."

Brendon bowed. Miss Salpeter curtsied.

"Miss Salpeter is from Lancashire, and enjoying her very first season in London. I have assured her that as a fellow countryman, nothing could delight you more than to escort her to the minuet."

The look on Miss Salpeter's face suggested that Sir Peter's choice of words sounded strange to ears other than just Brendon's. Fortified by this sign of rationality in a young lady and by Miss Salpeter's amused smile, Brendon gave a smart little bow (He had practiced. Mr Smith agreed that it was very smart.) and offered his hand.

"Miss Salpeter, I would be honoured to have this dance."

Miss Salpeter was indeed from Lancashire, and her views on the differences between London and the north were most enlightening. She was also an accomplished dancer (Brendon complimented her on this) and played the piano and the harp. They shared an enraptured conversation on Mozart - Miss Salpeter had an uncle who had seen Don Giovanni in Vienna the previous year, and there was much speculation concerning its arrival to England. Brendon had not yet been to the opera, and Miss Salpeter told him that he simply must, that it was the most ravishing experience she had ever had, and surely Sir Peter must have a box? Being a noted lover of art as he was?

A twinkle in Miss Salpeter's eye implied that more was meant by this than was readily apparent, but Brendon simply gave her his most dazzling smile and agreed.

After Miss Salpeter, Brendon danced with Miss Moneta Marriott. Miss Marriott did not care for the opera, or play an instrument; she felt that such accomplishments were ever so tiring, and who could bear to be asked to perform all the time? When Brendon replied that back in Yorkshire, he had rather enjoyed performing, Miss Marriott's look was eloquently contemptuous. "Well," she said, "I suppose we all have our uses. The society in Yorkshire must be quite different from London. Here only ladies perform."

At the word ladies, Miss Marriott glanced without subtlety up and down Brendon's body, making him flush and stumble a little. Miss Marriott's smirk made him doubly conscious of his heeled shoes, with their Gerardic lines and shiny buckles. A voice inside his head, curiously reminiscent of Mr Ross, reminded him that that such fashions could only be worn by persons above common tastes. (Being allowed to wear them in the first place had required Brendon's most wide-eyed and full-lipped look.) However, as Brendon told himself, Mr Ross was not present and could not defend him from young ladies. He and Mr Smith were standing on the other side of the ballroom (Brendon twisted his head only a little to look), sipping their drinks and laughing, ignoring all the young ladies and their longing glances. Brendon wished that he too could ignore the young ladies.

But his duty was clear, and so Brendon bowed at Miss Marriott with a smile, and allowed himself to be introduced to Miss Lydia Languard. Miss Languard did not play an instrument either, but she was an avid reader. Had Mr Urie read the latest novel by the author of Waverley? It was utterly captivating, and so very romantic - Miss Languard felt an unwavering admiration for those poor people in Scotland, who had been so cruelly mistreated by the English. Miss Languard had never visited further than Derby (her brother played the races), but she was certain that people up there were more inherently noble. Did Mr Urie not agree?

Brendon admitted, with a suitable amount of polite shame, that he had not read many novels, but that he was eager to be instructed in this matter. Miss Languard exclaimed in horror, but was kind enough to give a list of the most crucial works of the past fifty years. Mrs D'Arblay's Evelina, she informed Brendon, was the way to begin. A most riveting tale of a young person's entrance to the world, and during her first season Miss Languard had found much comfort in it. If Evelina, despite her peculiar circumstances and her regrettable tendency to laugh at gentlemen, could triumph and marry the most eligible bachelor in London, surely there was hope for them all? Brendon nodded his agreement, and expressed his readiness to learn from Evelina's mistakes. Miss Languard gave him a startled look, then smiled. Mr Urie, she was sure, would benefit greatly from further reading. One's first season was always so hard. And the gentlemen delighted in taking advantage of a young person's innocence.

An uncontrollable urge took over Brendon, and he leaned closer, smiling encouragingly and asked who, in Miss Languard's opinion, was the most eligible bachelor in London? Miss Languard blushed (Brendon, momentarily, felt like the most accomplished rake) and demurred, for surely she could not be expected to know such things, she was not the kind of young lady who thought of gentlemen in such a way. Of course not, Brendon agreed. No one could think that about Miss Languard. But those flash young ladies, who discussed the assets of various gentlemen without taste or decorum, who was their most coveted prize? He was new to town and ignorant of its ways, and would be most grateful to Miss Languard for any information.

Miss Languard demurred some more, but admitted after a while that the most eligible young men were Lord William Beckett, their current host, Count Gabriel Saporta, a notorious rake, and Mr Spencer Smith, a fashionable gentleman. Mr Smith had been wounded in the continent, she had heard, and he had at least ten thousand pounds a year. His comportment was always impeccable and his coats were exquisitely cut. There was not even a whiff of scandal about Mr Smith, which could not be said of the other two men - Lord Saporta was known as the Wicked Count! And Lord Beckett, although always charming, had lost his father's fortune in gambling and there were terrible rumours about him, not that Miss Languard knew precisely what they were, but terrible, nonetheless.

Brendon nodded, his eyes wide with scandal, and commended Miss Languard on her virtuous ignorance. Miss Languard smiled, and blushed graciously. But then her eyes became speculative.

"But of course, you must know Mr Smith quite well - he is also staying with Sir Peter this season, is he not?"

Brendon nodded and agreed that it was so.

"He is the most polite gentleman I have ever met, but so reserved! I've only ever seen him smile at Mr Ross. They are terribly close friends, are they not?"

Brendon swallowed, flashed a dazzling smile, and agreed that it was so. Mr Smith and Mr Ross were like brothers, and always in each other's company.

"Indeed," Miss Languard's frown denoted her effort to track down an errant memory, "I believe they are foster brothers. Did not Mr Smith's family take in Mr Ross when he was young? Of course one could not expect Sir Peter take care of a child at that age. Or, indeed, at any age."

Brendon nodded and smiled, and tried not to show that he had no idea what Miss Languard was talking about. Fortunately, he had had the opportunity to practice this and Miss Languard did not notice, but spent the rest of the dance chattering on about some people called Wulfric and Claude.

His next partner, Miss Amaryllis Osbaldethwaite, played the harp, was knowledgeable in modern novels, and knew everything about everybody. She did not phrase it in quite such a way, but Brendon was left with no uncertainty about her accomplishments and his own comparative lack. Miss Osbaldethwaite was a tall auburn beauty, whose slim yet curvaceous figure was displayed to advantage by her pale blue gown. Brendon was painfully aware of how much they clashed. (The Mr Ross inside his head pointed out that light blue and dark green were not among the exciting and unconventional colour combinations espoused by the truly fashionable.)

Miss Osbaldethwaite appeared equally aware of this fact, and did not seem convinced that Brendon's conversation or charm compensated for his appearance. Her smile was condescending rather than friendly, and her comments, although impeccably courteous, seemed to draw out every bit of provinciality and awkwardness out of Brendon. There were, he discovered, rather a lot of it. Miss Osbaldethwaite was not surprised. When she changed the subject to Mr Ross and Mr Smith Brendon was almost relieved, for surely Miss Osbaldethwaite could have nothing inappropriate to say about them.

Miss Osbaldethwaite did not. Quite the contrary. Mr Ross, he heard, was effortlessly charming and sophisticated (Brendon considered Mr Ross engaged in a tug of war over the last pastry with Sir Peter, and did not comment). He was a little eccentric, but that was easily forgiven when one knew of his tragic past and his great fortune. And Sir Peter, notorious rake that he was, was at least fully equipped with noble relations. Mr Smith, of course, needed no such excuses - his good family, commendable fortune, and his bravery during the war made Mr Smith a most esteemable gentleman. If only all young men were like Mr Smith. And his friendship with Mr Ross, so noble and amiable. Male friendships, Miss Osbaldethwaite declared, were always at risk of being too close - one had only to consider Lord Way and his scandalous exploits - but with gentlemen as unexceptionable as Mr Smith there was no risk of inappropriate effeminacy. There could never be any question of his courage or his manners. His manliness, Miss Osbaldethwaite felt, was beyond reproach. And what had Mr Urie done during the war? No doubt a younger son such as he had volunteered to defend the nation against Napoleon. Miss Osbaldethwaite felt quite strongly about men who had not braved the battle. There was some debate over whether they could properly be called men. Mr Flowers, the poet laureate, had recently written a poem upon this very matter. Had Mr Urie read it?

Brendon had not read it. Miss Osbaldethwaite noted that his colour was a little high and enquired, politely, whether the hot air, the dancing, and the drink were a little too much for him, unused as he was to London life?

A part of Brendon was tempted to say that yes, it was all too much for him, clearly he was not cut out for London life and should return immediately to Yorkshire, but he was fairly certain that Miss Osbaldethwaite would merely agree with him. He gritted his teeth, gave Miss Osbaldethwaite his most rakish smile and assured her that he was absolutely fine, and that it was only her beauty that had gone to his head. Miss Osbaldethwaite looked rather doubtful at that, but it was not a compliment she could deny.

At the end of the dance, Brendon escorted Miss Osbaldethwaite back to her friends. During their time on the floor the group had been joined by another young lady who looked at Brendon, and then at Miss Osbaldethwaite, with a great deal of curiosity.

Miss Osbaldethwaite's answering smile was cool, and she introduced her friend as Miss Sebastiana Barrington-Smythe. Miss Barrington-Smythe curtsied. Brendon bowed.

"Allow me to introduce Mr Urie. Mr Urie is …." Miss Osbaldethwaite paused, closed her mouth and smiled. She need not say anything more, Brendon realised, it was enough to suggest that Brendon was nobody, that there was nothing to say about him, that despite having conversed with him for the past 15 minutes, Miss Osbaldethwaite had nothing polite to say about him. Miss Barrington-Smythe raised one perfectly curved eyebrow and smiled, mirroring Miss Osbaldethwaite's amused sneer. Their silence was polite, public and eloquent.

There was nothing he could say. Brendon felt his smile slipping off, his body caught in an awkward pose of just finishing his bow.

"Mr Urie is my particular friend."

A gasp escaped Miss Osbaldethwaite's lips, and Brendon was certain that his own undignified squeak had not gone unnoticed, but Mr Smith merely smiled. In a slightly condescending way perhaps, but Brendon did not mind. Mr Smith could give him all the amused smirks he liked. Mr Smith, Brendon decided, was a hero.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr Urie."

As the only member of their little entente uninvolved in what had just happened, Miss Bzrrington-Smythe was able to offer her hand with gracious unconcern, although the glance she gave her friend might have been a tad malicious. Brendon mumbled something like _howdoyoudo_ over her hand, bowed again, and looked anxiously for an escape route. Mr Smith (_the marvellous Mr Smith!_ Brendon's brain supplied) nodded serenely at them all, then took hold of Brendon's arm and escorted him politely but firmly to the door. It appeared that Mr Smith was rather strong. No doubt his time in the army had trained him to use and develop all kinds of muscles, useful for dragging young men in and out of rooms.

Brendon's musings came to an abrupt halt at the sight of Mr Ross, waiting outside the ballroom door with his arms crossed over his chest and his foot tapping the floor. Mr Ross, Brendon discovered, could look amazingly like a sulky six-year-old when angry. Perhaps it was the ruffles.

"Where did you find him?"

Brendon was unsurprised to find that he was not addressed. This happened rather a lot with Mr Ross and Mr Smith.

"A couple of bitchy girls were making fun of him, so I had to get him out. I don't know their names, a redhead and a brunette? Some of _them_, anyway."

The coldness in Mr Smith's words made Brendon shiver, and he could not help blurting out "but they know your name". With perhaps slightly more volume than was necessary.

He regretted it immediately as Mr Ross's annoyed glare and Mr Smith's exasperated one focused on him. He bit his lip and tried to look small and innocent.

"Of course they do."

Mr Ross's voice held a world of contempt and Brendon wondered if he had stepped into one of those conversational land-mires that sometimes caused Mr Ross's petulance to turn into true anger. But Mr Smith did not seem worried, and only rolled his eyes.

"Well, yes, of course, but why should he know that? It's not like his society education has extended to the list of eligible bachelors."

Brendon looked at the ground and hoped that no one noticed his blush. Fortunately, and Brendon grimaced at the thought, Mr Ross and Mr Smith were too concerned with each other.

"Regardless…" began Mr Ross, but his irritated drawl was interrupted by Mr Smith.

"Regardless, we should make sure that he knows what to do when faced with those harpies. If he ends up bursting into tears in the middle of the ballroom Pete will never let us hear the end of it, never mind what it will do to his matrimonial prospects."

Mr Ross harrumphed and nodded before Brendon could point out that regardless of what the young ladies said, he would not burst into tears in the middle of the ballroom.

Well. He was fairly certain that he wouldn't. Though some of the young ladies were quite frightening.

As he was being bundled into the carriage (by Mr Smith's _manly _arms), Brendon decided not to share that thought with his companions.


End file.
